Constant Vigilance
by thisisforyou
Summary: Mycroft Holmes, a minor official in the Minister for Magic's office, is called in to assist on the worst magical mass murder case since Sirius Black. However, he's met their main suspect before, and something isn't right. Struggling to remain impartial, Mycroft and reluctant Auror Teddy Lupin must sift through increasingly shocking evidence to prove Gregory Lestrade's innocence.


**A/N: **This story is for MinMu, who paid a generous amount of money for it in the LLGS fic auction for Mark Gatiss' birthday. I originally pledged 10,000 words, but the prompt was so incredible it kind of got away from me and here we are, far longer, later and accidentally darker than I intended it to be. Um, Happy birthday, Mark. Sorry that it took so long, MinMu!

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><p>The first day, Mycroft Holmes walked into his office to find a neat pile of manila folders and a steaming pot of lapsang souchong sitting innocuously on his desk. A lilac memo fluttering nervously above it practically divebombed him the moment he walked through the door, signalling some kind of interdepartmental crisis.<p>

None of these things were strange. The intern he had been sent as a personal assistant a few weeks ago was from an old pureblood family that owned house-elves, and things like tea and colour-coded appointment diaries and report collections frequently just happened, a faint lingering scent of elderflowers the only sign that they hadn't occurred by magic alone. In much the same way as a good house-elf carries out its duties invisibly, Mycroft had only seen the boy on the occasions when he summoned him personally. It was almost a shame: from the way he prioritised the daily department reports that Mycroft received, he seemed to have some aptitude in the line of work and might be useful as a sounding board were he around more frequently.

He poured a cup of the tea as he read the memo: apparently the Minister for Magic wanted to see him urgently regarding an argument that had come up between the Obliviators, the Muggle Liason Office and the Spirit Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures regarding the ghost of Elizabeth the First. He rolled his eyes: the Virgin Queen was an ongoing argument between the divisions, and Mycroft had made his point of view clear in his first week in the Minister's office. He didn't see the point in spoiling the woman's evident delight in turning up to Muggle re-enactment fairs and replacing the ghost in the odd production of _Hamlet_, provided she never hurt anyone.

The tea was perfectly brewed and kept at the exact temperature he preferred it, so he drank a second cup and looked over the departmental reports before making his way down the corridor to the Minister's office. Apart from the Elizabeth I debacle the magical world seemed quiet: the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been called out to look at a Muggle mass murder in Southwark, but the initial report had shown no traces of magical activity. Mycroft's assistant had flagged it in green ink to keep an eye on it.

The final statement on the DMLE report had been flagged in pink, with the words _congratulations, sir _beside it in his assistant's scrupulously neat handwriting. Mycroft's stomach sank slightly.

_All Auror trainees passed their final examinations and are currently being placed within the department. Equal firsts were achieved by Holmes, Sherlock, and Watson, John. _

Sherlock had graduated without telling him, as usual. He sighed.

Sections of the Floo Network were being shut down overnight for routine maintenance, the flying carpet debate had been picked up again, and a new performance-enhancing potion had been added to the list of banned substances in the major Quidditch leagues. Mycroft grimaced over the last of his tea, pushed the reports aside, and braced himself for the argument to come.

"She makes absolutely _no effort_ to hide herself from Muggles. She thinks it's funny. Elizabeth Tudor was a fantastic witch in her time, but she's become a menace and we have to do something about it," the Muggle Liason officer said adamantly.

Mycroft crossed his legs at the ankle and shared a despairing glance with the Minister for Magic as the Spirit Division representative bristled indignantly. "Like what?" she asked. "Given that there have been _no_ casualties, you can't justify any kind of action that might harm her."

"And yet we've been going spare trying to cover up her little _jokes_ from the Muggle community," the Obliviator piped up.

Minister Shacklebolt gave Mycroft an expectant look, so he cleared his throat: instantly, the room's other occupants fell silent. "As I have mentioned previously," he started, letting the cold disapproval at being asked more than once bleed into the words, "Her Majesty has caused no casualties. Muggles who see ghosts are considered either eccentric or insane, and the worst that can happen in this instance is that Elizabeth becomes an urban legend for Tudor fanatics. As to the resources, I have suggested before forming a small task force to deal with ghost sightings. A joint task force between the Obliviators and the Spirit Division? It need not even be their entire job description, but when a ghost sighting is reported, it is immediately known that these people will be called out to deal with it. Elizabeth is not the only ghost that causes these problems."

The two representatives stared at him as though they had never heard the idea before. Mycroft frowned: he had mentioned it to different people the last time this came up, but they had both assured him they would circulate the idea. And people wondered why the Ministry was so ineffectual. He'd provide a written report and suggestion this time.

"Where would we get the people?" the Spirit Division witch asked him, sounding sceptical.

Mycroft spread his hands coolly. "The Spirit Division has the headcount for an extra staff member," he told her. She ought to have known that herself, but he kept that out of his voice. "The school year has just ended, there will be hundreds of Hogwarts graduates looking for jobs. And I believe the Obliviators can spare someone from the Underage Magic team. There's operational budget for training we can transfer if necessary."

Kingsley Shacklebolt nodded briskly, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms with an air of finality. "Put it into action," he ordered. "We'll get the paperwork through by the end of the week and you can start advertising for graduates."

Grudgingly, the department heads filed out of the Minister's office. Mycroft heaved a sigh as he lifted himself out of his seat. "I'll file a written recommendation this afternoon," he said.

"Thank you, Mycroft," Shacklebolt said, smiling wanly. "How's the assistant working out?"

He couldn't quite suppress a smile. "He's very efficient," he said. "I'll be sorry to see him go. Although I think -"

The door burst open; Mycroft spun on his heel to see Auror Lupin almost fall into the office, panting, a line of beaded sweat around the sandy hairline that faded through green to blue at the tips of his spiked hairstyle. He frowned; Teddy Lupin had led the party that had gone to check out the mass murder downtown. "Minister," he panted. "Mister Holmes, sirs - I need damage control. The murderer in Southwark is a wizard, they're bringing him in now and that damn Prophet reporter caught us on the way in."

"Not Parkinson again," Shacklebolt groaned.

Mycroft made an irritated noise. Pansy Parkinson was almost fifty and she still managed to be the biggest menace at the Daily Prophet. She drove a hard bargain when it came to holding back the press: he prepared himself for a few hours of difficult negotiation. "I'll deal with her," he said reluctantly. "Put someone in your department on organising a press release and wider comms plan. You said we have the murderer already? It was five dead, wasn't it?"

Lupin nodded. "His name's Gregory Lestrade. He used to work in our department as a Vigilant, but I think the Aurors had their eye on him - then last year he resigned. I can't remember why, but I'm about to go dig out his file before I let anyone talk to him. I've told Ron - Head Auror Weasley, sorry. He wants to talk to you before anyone does anything, too, Mister Holmes, sir."

"I'll see him in his office," Mycroft agreed. "I'll hold Parkinson at bay first, so it might not be for a few hours." Lupin grimaced sympathetically. "Someone get all the information you have to my assistant and I'll read it before I meet Auror Weasley."

The name _Gregory Lestrade_ rang a tinkly bell in his head - Mycroft himself had started off in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement before the Office of the Minister for Magic had spotted his unusual talents. The Vigilants were roughly equivalent to Muggle police; they were called out to burglaries and assaults and the smaller crimes that didn't merit Auror presence. Most of them wanted to be Aurors but hadn't been brave or clever enough to take the examinations. He hadn't had the time to get to know many people personally, but he'd known most people by name. He couldn't picture Lestrade, but he was almost certain he'd liked him.

He barked for his assistant as he swept back into his office; within moments, the youth stepped into the small room with a swarm of memos hovering above his head. "You know about the emergency in Law Enforcement, don't you, sir?" he asked, directing the memos at his desk with a wave of his wand. "They directed a few at me, and they said Auror Lupin was heading to the Minister's office."

"Yes, I've seen Auror Lupin," he said. "There should be a dossier arriving soon, hold it here until I get back. I don't want Parkinson anywhere near it."

Scorpius Malfoy raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into an exceptionally Slytherin half-smile. "_Pansy_ Parkinson?" he asked. "From the Prophet?"

Mycroft frowned at him. "Yes. Apparently she saw the Aurors bringing in their murderer, so I'll probably spend the next few hours trying to bribe her to keep away from the story."

The blond youth nodded slyly. "Leave her to me," he said. "She's a family friend."

He looked up at his assistant in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Oh yes," Scorpius replied airily. "She has a huge soft spot for me. Apparently I'm the _spit_ of my father."

Mycroft hesitated for another moment, then nodded gratefully. "All right, then. Let me know if you need help." He tapped his pocket, indicating the enchanted fob watch he kept to alert him of emergencies. Scorpius nodded. "I'll go straight to Auror Weasley's office, then. Thank you, Scorpius."

The youth smiled. "My pleasure, sir."

Not for the first time, Mycroft thought that it was almost a shame the young Malfoy's placement was only six weeks long. He'd never known _anyone_ he'd trust with work like that before.

Head Auror Ronald Weasley jumped when Mycroft walked into his office, clearly not expecting him. His red hair looked as though he'd spent all morning running his hands through it. "Mister Holmes," he said, unable to keep the breathy note of relief from his voice. "I wasn't expecting you for another hour at least - I thought you were talking to Parkinson?"

Mycroft smiled calmly. Weasley was a good Auror - probably born of his teenage years spent running around with the famous Harry Potter - but he crumbled under pressure rather easily and Mycroft had learned that he needed constant reassurance that he was doing a good job to keep his confidence up. "My assistant relieved me of that job," he said, as though there was nothing wrong at all and he wasn't worried. "Apparently the Malfoys and the Parkinsons go way back."

As predicted, Weasley relaxed a little at Mycroft's apparent unconcern. "Scorpius Malfoy is your assistant?" he asked with a tiny smile. "You're lucky, he's a good kid. He was friends with my daughter at Hogwarts." He paused for a moment, then let out a brief chuckle. "That's a sentence I never thought I'd say. His father and I were mortal enemies in our own Hogwarts days."

"How times change," Mycroft commented dryly. "But to the matter at hand - Auror Lupin mentioned that someone would organise a dossier to get me up to speed? I thought perhaps if I caught you early enough you would be able to get that delivered straight here."

Weasley nodded, immediately reaching for a quill and a piece of lilac memo paper. "I think one of the graduates was organising it. Oh - Sherlock Holmes is your brother, isn't he?" he said, evidently just remembering it.

Mycroft felt his lips thinning automatically. "Yes, he is."

"He did exceptionally well in their final exams. I believe he and John Watson helped each other to study. I'm trying to place the two of them together, they work beautifully in tandem." Mycroft smiled thinly; every second word he heard from his entire family was either _John _or _Watson_. Weasley waved his wand and sent the memo spinning out the door. "Anyway. When the report went out this morning we'd only just sent out the team - Lupin and Donovan went with the usual Vigilant team to investigate, but it was only routine, there were no indications that magic was involved. We didn't find out until Donovan came back because Lupin had recognised the murderer as a wizard and the wounds as wand-made. It was an unusual curse, so the initial sweep hadn't picked it up."

"Recognised the murderer? He was still on the scene?" Mycroft asked sharply.

Weasley nodded. "He was sitting there when the Muggle police arrived, surrounded by the five bodies. He hasn't moved or spoken since, apparently. He's downstairs now, just sitting in a holding cell. Lupin recognised him because he used to work in the Department. He was a good Vigilant. We were trying to convince him to take Auror training courses when he resigned - his wife contracted dragon pox."

Mycroft frowned. "Do we know if she survived?" he asked.

"I'll contact St Mungo's to find out once I've actually looked at his file," Weasley replied. "We don't have that information because it happened after he resigned. But at the present time I think it will take more than grief to keep him out of Azkaban."

He nodded. "If he hasn't moved or spoken it's possible there is more in play than just that," he said pragmatically. "It sounds as though he's in shock. You'll have to be gentle when you interrogate him until he gives a sign that harsher treatment is deserved."

Weasley ran his hands through his hair again, looking awkward. "Actually," he said slowly, "I was hoping you'd talk to him first."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Why?"

"Because nobody can get anything past you," the Head Auror said simply, meeting his eyes firmly. "Five people are dead, I don't want to make any mistakes on this case - I knew Sirius Black, I don't want to be responsible for a repeat of that. And you never make any mistakes. I'll put Auror Lupin in the room with you, but I've already put in to the Minister to have your personal assistance on this case to investigate and help coordinate the response from the Ministry to the public and the Prophet."

Sirius Black had been long before Mycroft's time, but he still knew that the impact a wizarding mass murder had on the community, and the backlash that had come after the War when Harry Potter had come forth with the truth about notorious mass-murderer Black. He knew how much public relations work would have to be done to keep the opinion of the Ministry positive, and how deeply he would be sucked into the case even if he wasn't officially involved. He sighed. "All right," he said reluctantly. "I'll talk to him in conjunction with Auror Lupin." He smiled at the thought of the Auror's lurid blue hair and multiple piercings. They would make an interesting team.

"I'll get Teddy to clean up his appearance a little," Weasley pre-empted with a slight smile, which Mycroft returned shallowly.

"Very well," he said smoothly. He'd worked briefly with Auror Lupin once before, and the young Auror had more going for him than his ability to change his appearance at will.

A knock came on Weasley's office door: the wizard made an affirming noise and a young man poked his nose around the door. "Auror Weasley, sir?" he asked, smiling broadly at the Head Auror like it was strange to call him by his title. "I have the file on the mass murder here."

"Thank you, John," Weasley said kindly, accepting the heavy manila file when it was offered to him. He watched the young Auror hand another file to Mycroft with a fond smile. Mycroft wondered whether this was the famous _John Watson_. He'd have to come back down and investigate, when there were fewer crises going on.

Not that there were ever fewer crises going on.

Weasley cleared his throat briskly. "All right," he said, pushing himself away from his desk with an air of finality. "I'm off to St Mungo's. I'll have Teddy meet you outside holding cell three downstairs, that's where we're keeping Lestrade. It's set up like an interview room, you should be fine in there - Janet should be able to provide you with anything you need that isn't there already."

Mycroft smiled reassuringly. "Thank you, Auror Weasley," he said calmly. "When you get the information from St Mungo's, send it to my office. I imagine Scorpius will be back by then."

He waited until he'd gathered the files and closed the office door behind him before he let the smile drop and the instinctive tight expression of worry replace it. He had a feeling it was going to be a long day.

Lupin had not yet arrived in the holding cell area when Mycroft got there, suspending the manila file on Lestrade's background in front of him so that he could read it as he walked. He sat down in the observation booth looking into holding cell three without glancing at its occupant until he'd settled in the rickety chair.

He looked up to see Lestrade sitting calmly at a bare table, his magically bound hands resting on its stone top, his eyes staring blankly down at them, and he almost fell off the chair, the folder in front of him falling to the floor with a _swish_ of displaced air.

He hadn't been able to picture this face, though he'd known that he'd liked Lestrade. It had been ten years since he'd worked around the Vigilants, but he still ought to have remembered Gregory Lestrade's face.

Mycroft's head wasn't turned by an attractive witch or wizard very often. It had been a talking point among his limited circle of friends at Hogwarts, that while the others had boyfriends, girlfriends or at the very least, hopeless crushes, Mycroft had never mentioned or obviously displayed one. Most of his friends had assumed that he simply kept his crushes well-hidden. The truth was far simpler: in his seven years at Hogwarts, only a handful of people had ever caught his eye, and most of those he had dismissed after a second glance. Before he had joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and met Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft would only label his attraction to one person as a 'crush' - and _after_ he had met Gregory Lestrade, he knew that that one person had not been a crush at all.

He'd met Lestrade on his introductory tour of the Department, his very first day at the Ministry. They had swept into the Vigilants' office in a flurry of activity and Mycroft had almost been knocked over by a swarm of interdepartmental memos on their way out of the door. A young man in a Vigilant's robes had bent to help him up, apologising for the poorly-cast spell, and Mycroft had temporarily lost the ability to speak.

Physically, the man had been stunning. Still was, Mycroft noted, though the hair at his temples was prematurely spotted with grey. He was stockily built, with dark hair that fell short of his bottomless brown eyes and a mouth that smiled warmly by default. His hurried apology had been delivered in a deep, rough voice that caught somewhere around Mycroft's navel and stuck there.

He'd been ready to dismiss the heady rush of physical attraction even so, but in the weeks that followed the Vigilant had seemed to take Mycroft as a sort of ward, stopping to talk to him in the hallways and checking up on him during his lunch breaks, and getting to know the older man on a personal level had only made things worse. Within a week, Mycroft knew it without a doubt.

Gregory Lestrade was perfect.

Mycroft's nature hadn't allowed him to get hung up on that fact or follow the Vigilant around like a lovesick bloodhound, but the thought was there at the back of his mind every time Lestrade had stopped and asked him how he was doing. He hadn't allowed himself to think that the older man was giving him special treatment - perhaps he _was _taking the same interest in the other DMLE interns, only not where Mycroft could see him - but he couldn't stop himself from hoping that maybe Lestrade was seeing his intelligence as attractive rather than irritating, that maybe the Vigilant actually, genuinely _liked _him.

When he'd announced his engagement the following year, Mycroft had had to admit his surprise and dismay; he'd never mentioned his fiancée in their conversations before. For a while he couldn't decide whether this gave him more hope or less: on the one hand, Lestrade was engaged and therefore unavailable, but on the other, not mentioning someone he intended to marry amidst all of the other things they'd talked about was significant and surely meant that Lestrade had _wanted_ Mycroft to think he was single. After a few weeks of dithering, he'd decided that it didn't matter: Gregory Lestrade was engaged to a witch who sounded perfectly lovely, and Mycroft would never let himself be 'the other man'.

Within a month, he'd been transferred directly into the Office of the Minister for Magic, and his contact with the Vigilant had steadily decreased until they didn't speak to each other at all.

Teddy Lupin coughed gently from the doorway, giving a pointed look at the contents of Lestrade's case-file still strewn over the floor. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked quietly.

"I know him," Mycroft said simply, brushing off the memories as best he could and bending to gather the papers once more. "We were… friends, I suppose, when I first joined the department. He was nice to me. I knew the name was familiar. I was surprised to recognise him, that's all."

Lupin nodded sadly. "Me too," he admitted. "I worked with him a lot when he was a Vigilant. He was a nice bloke, and a good officer. I'd love to believe he didn't do this."

Mycroft cleared his throat and stood, forcing himself to be businesslike. "Well," he said sharply. "We cannot let that affect how we behave in that room. I would suggest given the mental state you described when they brought him in that we operate gently, and on the assumption that he is innocent until proven guilty, but we must look at any evidence without the preconception that Lestrade simply isn't capable of this."

The Auror's face hardened. "Anyone's capable of anything," he said simply. "That's what I've learned in nine years as an Auror."

Lestrade's dark eyes slid open when they walked into the room, fixing blankly on each of them in turn. Mycroft smiled thinly as he sat down opposite him. He let the silence hang between them for a long moment, watching a wary look flitter over the strong face before he forced himself back into emotionlessness. He raised an interested eyebrow, which Lestrade ignored.

Finally, Mycroft took a deep breath in and flipped open the file. "Gregory Lestrade," he said softly. "I'll admit you are the last person I expected to see in this room."

The retired Vigilant almost smiled. "I can't say the same for you, Mycroft," he said, the slight tremor in his voice the only clue that he was being questioned for mass murder. "I always knew you'd go far."

He crossed his legs idly, letting the compliment sit there because he didn't know what else to do with it. "At this stage in our investigation, Mister Lestrade, you are a witness, nothing more," he said calmly. "We do not have enough evidence to treat you with anything but suspicion. The intent behind questioning you, at this point, is to gain more information on what happened this morning."

The corners of Lestrade's sharp lips turned down in displeasure. "Well, I can save you a lot of trouble, then," he said, his voice so low Mycroft had to restrain himself from leaning forwards to hear. "I did it. Those five people are dead because of me."

Teddy Lupin shifted slightly in his seat. Mycroft ignored him. "Why are you telling us, Mister Lestrade?" he asked, trying to appear unsurprised.

Lestrade shrugged. "I'm already here," he said simply. "You're going to examine all of the evidence and question me under Veritaserum and find other witnesses and come to the conclusion that it was me anyway. I'm saving all of us the trouble."

"We will have to do all of that anyway," Mycroft informed him. "A freely spoken confession is not enough to convict someone of a crime that would put them in Azkaban for life."

The older man looked as though he had expected this news, but his dark eyes were pleading when he fixed them on Mycroft once more. "What more can I give you?" he asked tonelessly.

"I need to know why," Mycroft said coolly, turning a page in the file in front of him. "Did you know the people you killed?"

Lestrade flinched slightly at the word _killed_. "No," he said quickly. "I'd never met any of them before. I think they were all Muggles."

"So why did you choose them?" Mycroft persisted.

The man looked slightly taken aback at the word 'choose'; he shifted from buttock to buttock uncomfortably for a moment before answering. "They were there. It wasn't as if I specifically chose them over other people."

Not knowing the victims, according to Mycroft's admittedly sparse knowledge of multiple homicide, usually indicated some kind of wider cause or protest, a plea for attention - but attention to what? There had been a resurgence in the old _Magic is Might_ anti-Muggle movement earlier in the year, led by the grandson of a former Death Eater, Peter Rundle. Most murders involving Muggles recently had been ascribed to him, but he had been killed avoiding capture the previous week and the movement had more or less fallen apart. Besides, he couldn't see Lestrade as an anti-Muggle activist. What other message could be taken from murdering five randomly-chosen Muggles? He frowned at him. "Then why do it?" he asked softly, drawing the manila file closer to himself as a sort of safety-net against the gravity of the question.

Lestrade's dark eyes slid slowly shut, and then just as slowly opened again. He was silent for a long time. Teddy sat up straighter in a nervous sort of way. "I just sort of… snapped. A whole number of things kept building up in my head until I knew I had to do something drastic."

"Murdering five random Muggles is a bit more than 'drastic', Mister Lestrade," Mycroft commented dryly. It hadn't really answered his question, but the inability to form a solid reason was partly an answer in itself. "Can you tell me whether there is any history of mental illness in your family?" he asked, glancing at the initial St Mungo's assessment in the file.

Lestrade frowned. "Not close family. My aunt was insane, but she's only family by marriage. Although, my uncle married her, so take from that what you will."

Mycroft couldn't stop his lips from twitching, more in interest at the man's ability to make a joke than in appreciation for it. It had been delivered nervously, with a bitter undertone suggesting extreme dislike for the aunt, but still with what he remembered as Lestrade's dry sense of humour. "Even so, can you describe the nature of her illness?" he asked.

The ex-Vigilant's eyes darkened. "My aunt was Bellatrix Lestrange."

Lupin twisted violently in his chair; even Mycroft felt a shiver announce itself up his spine. "I see," he said softly.

"My mother changed her name after the War," he said, smiling ruefully, clearly having anticipated their reaction. "Wanted to avoid people associating her with her brother and his wife." Teddy Lupin breathed out slowly as though in agreement. Mycroft narrowed his eyes critically. "I've never had any contact with them, obviously. Even Mother never really had any contact with them. There was a huge age gap between her and Rudolphus, they were never very close."

Mycroft waved an airy hand, drawing a quill out of thin air and making a note at the bottom of the file. It was interesting, that the Lestrade family was actually what remained of the Lestrange family - he would have to keep the Prophet away from that. Bellatrix Lestrange had only died three months ago, their story would still be a hot topic with the press. However, it was hardly relevant to the case at hand, and a connection with her and her husband would not help Lestrade's defence in the slightest.

"All right. Can you give me some examples of the _whole number of things_ that led to your distress this morning?" he said, shifting in a way that made it clear that he was dismissing the family connection.

Lestrade seemed to sag slightly in relief, as though the very idea of his aunt terrified him: however, his _whole number of things_ all seemed completely inadequate. Mycroft's frown intensified the more his murder suspect spoke - the more apparent it became that he had absolutely no motive for the murders, and that there was something else, perhaps something bigger, that the older man was hiding from them.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "I believe we are done here for now, Mister Lestrade," he said lightly. "Unless there is anything else you think we ought to know before we visit the scene, and St Mungo's to examine the victims?" Lestrade only looked at him blankly. Mycroft tried not to let impatience show in his voice. "Being aware, of course, that we have the authority to use Veritaserum should we discover anything incongruous to your story."

Once again, there was a heavy pause as Lestrade considered his answer. After a moment, he shook his head. "There's nothing else."

Mycroft pursed his lips in disappointment. "Very well," he said, making it clear that he didn't believe the other man. "Auror Lupin."

He and Teddy both stood and left the room; as soon as they closed the door behind them, the Auror leaned against it with a deep sigh. "Merlin," he breathed quietly.

Mycroft waited patiently for him to recover, tapping the quill he had summoned against his arm. "He was hiding something," Lupin said when he had straightened up once more. "I don't think he did it, and I don't think he prepared his lies very well."

"Certainly," Mycroft agreed. "It's likely he is attempting to protect someone. Possibly himself. There may be an Unbreakable Vow in play." He pursed his lips again, glancing at the older man through the enchanted window. "Though we do have the _authority_ to use Veritaserum, I'm not certain it would be wise. If he is under oath, the truth would kill him, possibly before we extracted the whole of it from him."

Teddy rolled his eyes. "It's never simple," he commented heavily. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but didn't reply.

He looked back at the detainee, who seemed to have only just noticed the bloodstains on his grey robes, and frowned. He couldn't help but feel sorry for his old acquaintance, whether he was 'guilty' or not. "Janet," he called to the detention administrator. "Get Lestrade a change of clothes, would you?" he asked her when she stuck her blonde head around the corner. "Murderer or not, we don't know how long he'll be sitting there in bloody robes."

Lupin raised an eyebrow with a slight smile at the order. "So you do have a heart," he commented when Mycroft returned the look. "I'm not the only one who's wondered."

Mycroft thought that there was a difference between human courtesy and _heart_, but he shrugged instead. He knew that his dual job title had earned him a rather mixed reputation in different departments and he didn't care enough to dispel any rumours around his apparent heartlessness. "Don't let on," he said, affecting carelessness. "Can you Apparate directly to the crime scene?"

Auror Sally Donovan greeted them at the door of the warehouse with a tight smile for Lupin and a puzzled but still disapproving look at Mycroft. Lupin gave him an apologetic shrug. "Sally, this is Mycroft Holmes. Auror Weasley asked for his assistance on this case. We've talked to Lestrade and we're not convinced that he did it, even though he is adamant that he did."

Donovan's eyebrows almost touched her curly hairline, but she levitated the Muggle police's crime scene tape for him to duck underneath anyway and started talking without a further look in his direction. "St Mungo's forensics removed the bodies an hour ago," she said over her shoulder as she led them into the warehouse. "It'll take them a while to do their analysis of cause of death and identify any magical residue. I'm not sure how much experience of crime scenes you have, Mister Holmes, but this one is a little grisly even without the bodies."

"I'm certain I can manage, Auror Donovan," Mycroft replied coolly. Teddy snorted.

He'd seen crime scenes before - this was not the first time Weasley had asked for his assistance on his cases - but usually the crimes were political in nature: neo-Death Eater groups, _Magic is Might_ members, foreign terrorism in action. He swallowed as Donovan directed him to step over a sticky patch of drying blood on the concrete floor. A mass murder with a personal motive was a new experience for him, and not one that he was enjoying, so far. "I've read the initial report from the first responders," Mycroft told her, narrowly avoiding a second pool of blood and grimacing. "What else can you tell me?"

Donovan pulled uncomfortably at the bun she had scraped her unruly hair into. "We still don't know what the woman was doing here," she said, indicating the bloodstains furthest from the door. "The victims were four burly men, we assume night-shift Muggle workers or security guards, and one young woman, early twenties."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Secretary or assistant, perhaps?" he suggested. "Or a bystander who heard the noise and came in to investigate? What time were the Muggle police alerted, could she have tried to call for help?"

"As far as I know, she didn't have a mobile phone out when she was found. It was a man who called the police, and he waited here for them to arrive to give a statement, which we took," Donovan replied. "I'll get you both a copy, it was after we sent back the initial report."

Teddy nodded, peering out of the door at the road. "This is quite out of the way," he commented. "I would think you'd have to choose this place specifically, it wouldn't just be the first building you come to from anywhere. Lestrade said he didn't choose these people over other people, but he certainly didn't pick them at random."

Mycroft tilted his head critically. "Perhaps he meant that he didn't know who would be on duty here, simply that there would be people. He picked this spot, but he didn't know the people." The Auror shrugged. "What else can you tell us, Auror Donovan?"

Donovan smiled tightly. "From the spread of the blood I'd say he immobilised them all and then attacked one at a time. I got a look at the bodies before they removed them. It was pretty horrific, but I think I recognised the spell - it's rare Dark magic, very specific knowledge. But it's in the standard training for Aurors and Vigilants."

"So Lestrade would have known how to cast it?" Mycroft clarified.

She opened her mouth to reply, but Teddy was already shaking his head. "We're taught to recognise them, and how to counteract them if it's not too late, but not how to cast them. But he would have known enough to be able to find out."

Donovan nodded, looking back at Mycroft. "The woman died last," she said. "Her blood spread a lot further, too - either he didn't immobilise her properly and she fought, or he did it slowly."

"Which could indicate either hesitation or relish," Mycroft mused. Donovan shrugged, in a terrible approximation of nonchalance. "I imagine it would have been a surprise to find such a young woman here, particularly since Lestrade has a sister in her early twenties. How long do you think we'll have to wait for the St Mungo's report?"

The Auror shrugged again. "The morning, I should think," she said. "For an initial report - cause of death, magical residue, confirmation that the wand we gave them caused the wounds. Then we can clear them to give access to the Muggle community and get identification of the bodies, and it might be another day, maybe two, if we want a full reconstruction from the wand and the bodies of how it happened. I would think that would be necessary in this case."

Mycroft had to agree, so he nodded approval. "Very well," he said. It would have been an awful lot easier to have the St Mungo's report in time to make the _Prophet's_ evening edition, but he couldn't exactly rush the forensic Healers. "Take us through the rest of the scene and then we ought to co-ordinate a press release. I doubt even Scorpius Malfoy can hold Parkinson back for long."

When he got back to his office, though, it seemed as though that was exactly what Scorpius had done: he was sat calmly at his desk outside Mycroft's office, skim-reading an interdepartmental memo by running his pale wand smoothly down the page, no sign of the reporter's usual barrage of Howlers around his desk. He looked up with a smile when he heard footsteps. "Oh, sir, you're back," he said brightly, gathering an unsettlingly large stack of parchment from the side of his desk. "I looked for you in the holding cells when I finished placating Pansy, but Janet said I just missed you. Head Auror Weasley sent up a few files - their latest on the mass murder. Witness statements, the Muggle police report that was suppressed, and the file from St Mungo's on a Sarah Lestrade?"

Mycroft took the files one by one as his assistant handed them over, flicking the St Mungo's one open as he received it: apparently Mrs Lestrade had died two months after contracting the illness. He grimaced. Scorpius waited until he had closed it again before passing up the next file. "The Head Unspeakable requested a meeting - you know how they don't like to put their reports on paper. He said it was urgent, but I sent a quick note in reply that there had been an emergency in another department and you might not be able to get to him today. I can let him know you're back and see if he can send up a Patronus or something to let you know the gist of their 'urgent' situation, so that you can see if you need to pay attention to it?"

He nodded shortly. "Thank you, Scorpius. It's likely to be nothing, but you never can tell with the Department of Mysteries."

"Pansy has agreed to run the mass murder story without mentioning that we have anyone in custody," Scorpius continued, handing a piece of parchment over with the journalist's elaborate signature on it. "She'll hold her story as late as she can to incorporate any official release from the department but what she's writing at the moment is just that there was magical involvement in the death of five Muggles and that the Ministry is investigating."

Mycroft nodded, impressed despite himself. That was more than he would have been able to negotiate with her. "Thank you," he said. "If you could get some form of summary from the Head Unspeakable I would appreciate it. In the meantime I will be composing reports of what I have seen today of the mass murder in order to compile a press release - could you go down to Janet and find her recording of Auror Lupin's and my interview of the suspect? I may ask you to transcribe sections."

The young Malfoy dipped his head politely. "Of course, sir." He turned to go, but turned back at the door with a concerned frown. "Sir - did you have lunch? Only I know you've been busy, and it's almost four."

Mycroft glanced at his watch in surprise, but he was right: between interviewing Lestrade and visiting the crime scene, almost the entire working day had flown past him without a thought to his belly. Which, now he _did_ think about it, was probably growling loudly enough that his assistant could hear it. "No, I didn't think of it," he said.

"I'll pick something up on my way back," Scorpius offered cheerfully. Mycroft wondered absently yet again what he would have to offer him - and the Minister - to be able to keep Scorpius on permanently.

The emergency in the Department of Mysteries turned out to be one of their new interns getting lost in their rotating corridor: the poor boy had gone to fetch his supervisor a folder from another wing in the early morning and not been seen since. Mycroft had had stern words with the Head Unspeakable about allowing interns to wander off and then organised a search party.

Scorpius returned with a limp chicken sandwich and the recording from Lestrade's holding cell in time to pass the rather subdued Unspeakable on the way out of Mycroft's office. "Another missing intern?" he asked, handing over the sandwich and the mirror containing the recording. "Sorry about the sandwich, sir, the canteen's a bit dire at four o'clock."

Mycroft smiled gratefully. "Thank you," he said. "Yes - he'd only been there a week and now when they find him he'll never want to go back. I can only hope he's bright enough not to touch anything. And that he'll agree to the Obliviation of everything he saw in there and not make a fuss to the _Prophet. _Is this the recording of the interview?"

Scorpius nodded, settling cross-legged on the chair opposite his desk and standing up a Quick-Quotes Quill on his lap. "From the moment you walked in to about five minutes after you walked out, she said."

"If you're using that, you may as well transcribe the whole thing," Mycroft said, nodding at the Quill. Scorpius shrugged easily. "All right…"

The picture flickered into view at the command; Lestrade sat calmly in the holding cell, not looking up as Mycroft and Teddy Lupin entered the room. Watching from a third-person perspective, Mycroft could see the stiffness of discomfort in his own movements, and the tentative hopeful look that the ex-Vigilant snuck towards him when he was looking down at the file.

Lestrade really thought that Mycroft would be able to help him. And he _wanted_ to. But what would 'helping Lestrade' really mean when the man refused to tell them the truth?

He tried to concentrate on how the older man was speaking, how he held himself and what he did with his hands and his eyes, but Lestrade's hands and eyes were rather hypnotic. He was twisting his hands uncomfortably together in a way that had made Mycroft want to reach out and grab them to keep them still; and his dark eyes remained largely fixed on Mycroft himself unless Teddy was speaking. Mycroft could swear he saw those eyes flicker almost appreciatively down his person more than once - or was that only wishful thinking?

"Do you know Gregory Lestrade, sir?" Scorpius asked innocently when the recording had ended and the office fallen silent but for the scratching of the Quill. "He seemed quite familiar with you."

Mycroft smiled tightly. "He was a Vigilant when I first started with the DMLE. We were acquaintances, I suppose."

Scorpius looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry you have to deal with this case, then, sir," he said.

"Part of this job is that you have to know everyone," Mycroft replied as calmly as he could. "And that occasionally some of those people do bad things, and someone needs to sort them out." He sat back in his chair as the Quick-Quotes Quill finished transcribing the interview and began transcribing their conversation instead. Scorpius stopped it hurriedly. Mycroft sighed. "You may as well go home, Mister Malfoy," he said finally. "It's past five o'clock."

The youth looked as if he were about to refuse for a moment, but then he nodded reluctantly. He blew gently on the ink from the transcription and rolled it into a neat scroll before standing. "Have a good night, sir," he said gently.

Mycroft replayed the recording a few times, reading along with the transcription and making occasional notes to draw into a full report on his initial impressions of the case. It was difficult to watch the way Lestrade looked at him and focus only on the fact that he might have murdered five people, particularly when he _knew_ that the man was in the same building as he was, sitting in a cell and stewing to himself. Every sentence he wrote concerning his opinions of Lestrade's guilt sounded biased and unprofessional, until the hours stretched out and Mycroft's brain grew slightly fuzzy.

Around midnight, he gave up trying to deny the urge and tiptoed down to the holding cells.

Lestrade was lying on the bed in the overnight cell they'd put him in, a harsh affair with a paper-thin mattress and minimal sheeting, his arms behind his head, staring sleeplessly up at the ceiling.

Mycroft watched him through the one-way glass, resisting the urge to press his hand wistfully to the window. At two years his senior, Lestrade's hair was turning to grey and the laugh and frown lines were beginning to accumulate around his warm eyes, but aging suited him. After ten years to come to terms with his first encounter with the Vigilant, he could easily admit to himself that Lestrade was still incredibly attractive. Possibly even more so than ten years ago. He let himself stare for a moment or two.

Quite suddenly, the older prisoner sat up on the bed, levering himself upwards using his stomach muscles instead of his hands in a rather unnecessary show of strength. He stared, transfixed, as Lestrade looked directly at him through the enchanted glass he should not have been able to see through and smiled, a tiny knowing expression that made Mycroft's stomach drop right to his knees. He suddenly doubted whether he _had_ in fact fallen asleep at his desk and was now dreaming.

Lestrade leaned forwards further, stretched out a hand, and beckoned. In case it _was_ a dream, Mycroft went.

Oddly, the widower jumped slightly when Mycroft opened the door to the holding cell and entered the tiny room, but the smug smile soon followed, and he flipped his legs off the side of the bed and leaned against the stone wall. Mycroft stood awkwardly for a moment before conjuring a chair and sitting down. "How did you know I was out there?" he asked, clearing his throat to get rid of the unfortunate husky quality it had obtained on the first few words.

"I didn't," Lestrade admitted with a sheepish grin. "I've been doing that every ten minutes for the last two hours, hoping you would be."

He wasn't sure whether this was true, but he snorted nervously anyway. "Why would you hope I was there?" he asked, then regretted it instantly for the hopeful note he hadn't been able to restrain.

Lestrade smiled slightly. "I wanted the chance to talk to you without Teddy Lupin sitting in. Off the clock, when I know you're not recording every word for the case." He sat up sharply, leaning forwards to give him an intense look. "I wanted the chance to say…" He sighed, suddenly looking as though he had aged fifty years, not ten, since they had collided on Mycroft's first day at the Ministry. "Mycroft," he said seriously, using his first name for the first time since the arrest. "If we were ever friends at all, please, I'm begging you. Don't investigate this. Just put me in Azkaban."

_I have to,_ he should have said. _I have to investigate it, or someone else will. That's the way the Department has to work. _Except that he knew that he had enough standing with the Minister that he could sweep it under the rug, as a personal favour. He technically had the power to do just as Lestrade was begging him to. And he knew that if he did, it would prey on his conscience for the rest of his life.

"I can't," he said instead, not because he was constrained by process but because he knew his own curiosity wouldn't allow him to let it go. He looked at a crack creeping across the stone floor instead of meeting his old friend's pleading eyes. "You know I can't."

Lestrade leaned back against the wall once more, looking defeated but not particularly surprised. "You've always been staggeringly brilliant," he said softly, closing his eyes. "You'll work it out eventually. Just… I don't know what else I could have done. I've thought it through a thousand times and I still don't know."

Mycroft waited for a moment, in case the truth was forthcoming, but Lestrade didn't continue. "I'm sorry, Gregory," he said quietly, feeling completely inadequate both as a friend and as an investigator on the case: unable to comfort him without knowing what he was trying to comfort, and unable to probe further without causing yet more pain to his old obsession.

"Greg, please," the other man corrected, opening his eyes once more. Mycroft smiled tightly in acknowledgement. There was silence for a moment or two as the ex-Vigilant studied him with a tiny frown. "Why did you come down here?" he asked eventually.

It was an extremely good question, and Mycroft wasn't sure he was ready or quite able to answer it. He sighed and opted for honesty. "I'd reached the point where I couldn't work anymore, and I couldn't face the bed I've had to have installed in my office. I just kept thinking about the you that I used to know, and then I just wanted to see you." He snorted slightly. "I thought I _had_ fallen asleep when you looked straight at me."

Greg laughed easily. "You're lucky you were standing there," he said. "I would have looked pretty stupid beckoning in completely the wrong direction. There was a part of me that thought someone had been sitting there for the whole two hours, watching me go through that rigmarole every ten minutes." They chuckled together, picturing it. People frequently said that they knew when they were being watched in the holding cells, even with the enchanted glass, but Mycroft always dismissed it as confirmation bias and the knowledge that someone _could_ always be watching you. As a Vigilant, Greg had probably been taught the same. "You had to have a bed installed in your office?"

Mycroft flapped a hand. "I enjoy my job," he said, "but I still lament sometimes that I've made myself so attached to it."

"I know," Lestrade agreed. "You can never stop being a Vigilant, either. Sarah hated it. She worried too much - we used to have some incredible rows about the likelihood of my being injured at work. When the Auror department approached me the first time I knew I had to choose between her and the job. And then she caught dragon pox, and I couldn't choose the job after that. But I still thought like a Vigilant, still went to the team drinks at the Leaky Cauldron every Friday. _Constant Vigilance_, that's what the Aurors always used to say to us. I thought they just meant to always be on the lookout."

"I always wondered why you didn't become an Auror straight out of Hogwarts," Mycroft commented, smiling at the department catchphrase. Weasley had had it emblazoned above the door to the Auror offices wing: apparently an old ex-Auror who had died in the War had taught it to him.

Greg smiled absently. "I failed my Potions NEWT," he explained. "I was sick as a dog that day. Spent the entire exam trying not to throw up into my cauldron." Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and the older man chuckled. "I didn't," he supplied. "But I might as well have done, apparently. So I did what everyone else who doesn't make Auror does and went into the Vigilants. And I enjoyed it. But when the Aurors asked me to join their training programme I knew I wouldn't be able to say no unless I chose Sarah and left the Vigilants entirely."

Mycroft grimaced. "I was sorry to hear that she had died," he said as sympathetically as he could. "Dragon pox can be a cruel disease."

Lestrade shook his head. "It was almost a year ago now," he said. "I'm not saying I don't wish she was still here, but I've had time to come to terms with the fact that she's not."

They sat in silence for a moment, then Lestrade leaned forwards urgently. "Mycroft, I'm really sorry that we stopped talking all those years ago," he said, as though the words had been banging at his lips all day trying to break free. "It was a selfish move on my part."

"It's all right," Mycroft tried to say, but the other man cut him off with an angry snort.

"No," he reiterated, "it isn't. We were friends, and I… I stopped talking to you when I first got engaged to Sarah because I was so attracted to you, and it was hard for me to be around you and not be able to even acknowledge that to myself. I didn't trust myself to keep spending so much time with you and not act on it, and I didn't want to put either of us in that position. But we were friends, and I shouldn't have held my attraction to you as more important than our friendship."

He looked so genuinely distressed about it that Mycroft couldn't help but smile. "You may not have noticed, but I didn't exactly fight it," he said softly. "Mostly for the same reason."

Lestrade smiled sadly at him. "I ruined everything, didn't I," he said, and it wasn't a question. Mycroft wanted to try and deny it, but he wasn't sure that he could. He'd often wondered what kind of person he would have grown into if he'd allowed his attraction to Lestrade to show, to become something.

He supposed he would have had to already be a different kind of person to allow that.

The ex-Vigilant sighed, resting one hand defeatedly on his palm. "We sort of just… completely missed each other," he lamented.

The words _maybe not_ floated through Mycroft's mind, but he swallowed them and they settled heavily in the pit of his stomach.

"I should go," he said instead.

Lestrade looked away, the tiniest bend in his lip suggesting that he was biting it rather hard. "Yeah," he agreed.

Mycroft hesitated for a few more moments, unsure what exactly he was waiting for. When nothing happened, he got up and left the room.

* * *

><p>II<p>

* * *

><p>"They're not all Muggles," was the first thing the attending Healer said when the two of them knocked on the door to the St Mungo's mortuary on the second morning, not bothering with any kind of greeting or introduction. "One of the victims was a witch, though she was found without a wand. One of my students observing the post-mortem recognised a magical tattoo on her shoulder - there was no recognising her from what was left of her face. Apparently they were in the same year at Hogwarts and he remembered her showing off the tattoo in Charms class."<p>

The mortician was an older woman, square black spectacles perched precariously on the end of her straight nose, the forest-green forensic file clutched tight to her chest. Mycroft smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring way in the hope that she would hand it over, but she kept talking. "She was killed last. It's possible that the others were only killed to try and make her death look incidental."

"Or it could be a coincidence," Mycroft argued. "Around one in five people in London have magical ability, the statistics would support it. Did your student give you a name?"

The Healer glanced from the slab closest to them to a straight-backed chair next to the window as the young man who had been sitting in it stood nervously. Mycroft raised an eyebrow: the middle Potter child stared back with startlingly green eyes. Albus Potter looked young for his age, particularly since he didn't look to have slept. Mycroft imagined that being a forensic mortician would be bearable until you had to examine someone that you had known in life. He tried to smile sympathetically at the boy. "It's funny," the mortician said lightly, "but I thought I'd already heard the name in conjunction with this case. Must have just imagined it."

"Which name?" Teddy asked. Mycroft noticed that he was also eyeing the file in her arms with a slightly expectant look.

She didn't take the hint, instead leading them over to the slab and patting Potter consolingly on the shoulder. "The victim's," she said. "Her name was Emily Lestrade. Her brother Gregory was a Vigilant, maybe that's why I thought I'd heard the name."

The mortician kept speaking, and Mycroft hoped that Teddy was still paying attention, because his own ears had drowned out her words with shocked static. His _sister_. If he had thought it unlikely that Lestrade would murder five strangers in so horrific a fashion, he knew without a doubt he couldn't mangle his own sister's body to the extent that she couldn't be recognised by her face. Which had to have been deliberate.

"Are you all right, Mister Holmes?"

He looked up; the Healer had paused to look at him in concern. "Forgive me," he said calmly, drawing his posture upright once more. "Emily Lestrade's identification complicates the matter somewhat. Her brother Gregory is involved in the case." He left it open so that the woman would assume that he was involved in an investigative capacity. "The faster you can get identification of the other victims, the better for us, Healer…?"

"Morton," she offered, looking slightly embarrassed that she hadn't introduced herself earlier. "I'll release the information to the warehouse owners as soon as you leave and get names for you."

Teddy cleared his throat expectantly. "So what can you tell us so far, Healer Morton?" he asked politely.

She finally relinquished the file to him, glancing with concern at Albus Potter before drawing the sheet down from Emily Lestrade's body.

Mycroft swallowed, but forced himself to look at the mess for a moment before he let himself look away. "I would say the facial injuries were done intentionally to delay identification," she said, a certain careful note in her voice that Mycroft had only heard people use in front of dead bodies or crime scenes. "We've confirmed that all five victims were attacked with the wand you presented us. Most of the disfigurement of this victim was done post-mortem, but since her cause of death was a blow to the head my best guess would be that that wasn't intentional. We will attempt to reconstruct the circumstances entirely this afternoon and get back to you via owl, but I would say that the first curse to Lestrade knocked her backwards and she hit her head, which is what killed her. Given that the other victims were tortured ante-mortem I would say it was accidental."

He glanced at Teddy, who was also frowning heavily. _Accidental_, he thought, _or some facsimile of mercy for Lestrade's sister._ Teddy nodded slightly at him as though thinking the same thing.

"Thank you, Healer Morton," Mycroft said briskly. "I look forward to hearing from you."

They went straight back to the Apparition point outside the holding cells, where Janet the administrator jumped at their arrival. "Lestrade," Mycroft barked at her impatiently.

"Er - overnight two," she blustered, stepping quickly out of his way in alarm.

Usually Mycroft had a certain amount of time for the detention administrator; she was highly efficient and despite her petite stature, he had seen her handle far bigger wizards with calm authority. Today, however, his sole focus was to get to Gregory Lestrade before he had time to identify the feeling in his stomach as betrayal. Gregory had _lied_ to him, lied right to him, and somehow the lying last night seemed so much more personal than that of the interview the day before.

"Your _sister_," he almost shouted as soon as they burst into the holding cell, slapping the St Mungo's file onto the table.

Lestrade sat up sharply, the colour draining from his face. "What?" he asked.

Mycroft sat down heavily in a chair opposite from him, carefully not choosing the chair he had sat in the previous night, and flipped the file open to the horrific photograph Morton had taken of Emily Lestrade. "The fifth victim was your sister Emily," he repeated. "Why didn't you tell us? Did you think we wouldn't find out?"

There was silence for a moment. "I hoped, I suppose," Lestrade said finally. "But not really. I just… didn't want my mother to find out."

"You didn't think that when Emily went missing on the day you committed a multiple homicide she would put two and two together?" Mycroft asked sarcastically.

Lestrade bristled. "It's like you think I _planned _this," he said angrily. "I know my 'cover-story' sucks. I made it up in the fifteen minutes between this happening and my being arrested for it. I didn't mean for any of this to happen, but it was my fault and I wish you'd just let me take that responsibility."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow as coolly as he could manage. "So what would you like me to tell your mother?" he asked. "That the reason the two of you are currently missing is that your sister is dead and I am holding you responsible for her murder?"

"I don't know," Lestrade replied, sounding exhausted and defeated. "Maybe. What else would you tell her?"

"The truth," Teddy suggested. "We can't know what's better unless you tell us. Wouldn't you like someone else to be the one who has to make that decision?"

The ex-Vigilant stared at him. "No," he insisted vehemently. "Who else would decide? Who else knows my mother well enough to decide what news would be easier for her to live with? _You?_"

Mycroft bit his bottom lip and hoped that Lupin didn't try to respond. Thankfully, the Auror fell silent, looking mildly embarrassed. Lestrade turned his dark eyes back onto Mycroft. "I've just told you that I would rather my mother think that I did _that_ to my sister than she know the truth," he continued, glancing hatefully down at the picture that was still face-up on the table. "How can that _not_ tell you everything you should need to know about the truth? It's worse than this. Trust me."

"If we were asking out of friendly curiosity, it would be enough," Mycroft said calmly, closing the file on the picture with an uncomfortable tightness in his throat. "Gregory, we've told you. You're a suspect in the murder of five people, one of whom is your own sister and a respected member of the Wizarding community. It's not up to us, and we _can't_ trust you."

Unsurprised, Lestrade only smiled sadly at him. "Then I have nothing more to say," he said firmly.

Mycroft tried not to sigh. "Very well. Tomorrow we will receive a full report from St Mungo's with a reconstruction of what happened, from your wand and their injuries. That ought to be all the evidence we need."

"I expect I will see you tomorrow, then, Mister Holmes," the older man told him.

Fuming, he stood abruptly and left the room without a backwards glance.

Lupin caught up with him right before the elevator; Mycroft was a moment too slow to slam the grille in his partner's face and he slipped in beside him. "Are you all right?" the Auror asked, looking irritatingly patient.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. "I'm fine," he said. "I'm not certain we can do anything now except wait for Morton to complete her reconstruction."

"Maybe Lestrade will have more to say in the morning," Lupin suggested. "Once he's had time to sleep on it, you know. We should go back in there in the morning."

It was rather like having an itch underneath all the layers of his skin; he wanted to see the Gregory Lestrade he'd spoken to the previous night, the _man_, not the murder suspect.

Mycroft waited with shrinking patience and very little productivity until the hall lights outside his office were extinguished, the usual signal that everyone except the ridiculously overworked had gone home for the day. He forced himself to sit in his lone cocoon of light for a further half hour before he allowed himself to leave his reports and unfinished drafts of potential press releases and make his way down to the holding cells.

He ran into an older man from the Magical Transport Office in the lift, and spent a few awkward moments trying to justify his reasons for visiting the holding cells after hours by himself. Luckily there were benefits to his position - a 'minor' one in the Minister's Office to everyone who wasn't a Head of Department - and a sharp sentence involving the word 'classified' sent the man scurrying out of the lift as though Mycroft had threatened to breathe fire.

He'd never used his position like that before.

Lestrade looked almost relieved when Mycroft entered his cell, as though he'd been worried that he had ruined whatever informal relationship they had begun the night before and lost his only ally in the Ministry. He was sitting in a foetal position curled up in the corner of the room on the bed, but when Mycroft smiled tentatively at him he uncurled himself and resettled on the edge of the bed.

Unsure what to say, Mycroft let the silence hang uncomfortably as he settled himself down in the straight-backed chair. Lestrade breathed in and out so carefully Mycroft could hear each tiny tremor in his breath. "I'm sorry I lied to you," the older man said finally.

"I understand why you did it," Mycroft dismissed quietly. "Although I still believe you would be better off simply telling us the truth."

Lestrade snorted a little. "Probably," he admitted. "But I had to try. Now… I think you should find out the facts yourself so I don't bias you." He hesitated a moment before adding, "Plus, I was still half-expecting you to have used Veritaserum by now."

Mycroft tried to dismiss the flicker of irritation the statements brought to his chest before it showed on his face. "We thought you might be under an Unbreakable Vow," he explained shortly. Lestrade made a face indicating sudden understanding before letting his expression lapse back into sullen silence. "You've adjusted well to losing Emily," he said before the irritation had quite gone, then wished he could kick himself without Lestrade seeing. Annoyance had made the words petty and injurious.

The ex-Vigilant just smiled sadly. "I think I lost Emily - the one I loved, the one I grew up with - a long time ago," he said. "I just didn't realise until that morning how long ago we passed the point of no return."

"Sorry," Mycroft said, part sympathy and part embarrassment. Lestrade smiled like he understood both. He sighed quietly to himself. "I shouldn't be here," he admitted. "I really just wanted to see you out of hours, so that I could actually say that I'm sorry for your loss, and for how I reacted when I found out about it."

Lestrade shuffled forwards on the bed until his knees almost touched Mycroft's. "Thank you," he said. "And… well, I lied to you. Not just as a part of your investigation, but later when you came to see me as a friend I lied again. You had every right to be angry." He leaned forwards slowly with a deep breath, which he let out with agonising slowness. "Mycroft," he said seriously, "I… I wish the circumstances were different, obviously, but it's been nice to get to know you again. Maybe it's silly considering how little we actually knew each other even back then, but I missed having you in my life."

Mycroft tried to swallow the heart-shaped lump that had sprung into his throat, but it stuck rather resolutely and he had to cough to cover up the discomfort. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I… well, me too." It was odd, really, how despite the circumstances under which they'd met again and the ten years between those meetings, talking to Gregory on a human level while trying to ignore the case was comforting and familiar and _nice._

He wondered briefly - the thought conjuring a million ghosts of similar thoughts from long ago - what it would be like to kiss Lestrade, to simply lean forwards and take his strong jaw into his hands and press their lips together.

But apparently they'd missed their chance. He realised his eyeline had dropped to the older man's surprisingly shapely lips and yanked it upwards again. Lestrade didn't miss the movement; he smiled softly. "Tell me about your life," he asked brightly, leaning backwards again. "What do you actually do in the Ministry?"

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, but his old crush looked so sincere, like he genuinely wanted to know. And even if he didn't care about Mycroft specifically, it would most likely be a welcome change from everything he'd talked about in the last two days. "I hold a minor position in the Minister's Office," he said factually.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, a smile playing across his lips. "Is that secret code for 'I run everything'?" he asked.

A surprised laugh bubbled from between Mycroft's own lips. "In effect, I suppose," he admitted. "How did you guess?"

"The Mycroft Holmes that I knew at twenty would not still be in a 'minor position' ten years later," Lestrade laughed. "Unless it was a cover for the fact that Kingsley Shacklebolt no longer runs the Ministry."

Mycroft shook his head with a smile. "Shacklebolt is an intelligent man, but I'm not certain he was ever Minister material," he said honestly. "After the War he was perfect - someone who fought for the Order, clearly signalling to the public that 'the good guys are in charge now' - part of me is convinced that they offered it to Harry Potter first, even though he was barely eighteen and without qualification. But that was almost thirty years ago. The only reason he still holds it is because no-one else wants it. Merlin knows what they'll do when he dies."

Lestrade snorted. "They'll hire you, of course," he said confidently.

"Circe, no," Mycroft said, making a face. "I'm happy to clear up everyone else's mess, but I don't want to be responsible for it." The ex-Vigilant laughed. "If I were Minister, I'd need to hire someone to do _my_ job, and I don't think there is anyone else. Modesty aside, I have a particular talent for seeing the big picture and pulling loose threads together that I've never seen in anyone else."

He received a fond look at his description of his own talents that was familiar enough to make his heart throb painfully. "I've never seen a professional point to modesty," Lestrade agreed with a playful grin. Mycroft smiled. "And outside of work?" he continued. "You said you were unhealthily attached to your job, but do you have family? Hobbies?"

"Neither of which I have time for," Mycroft replied. "I have a younger brother who just became an Auror, though I have my doubts around how long that will last. He seems to have made it his life's mission to ignore me. And any hobbies I once had are long forgotten."

Lestrade grinned again. "That's very sad," he said, clearly not meaning it. "Emily went through that phase - she ignored me all through her Hogwarts years. Had trouble forgiving me for leaving home, I think. Your brother will come around eventually."

Mycroft doubted it, but he said nothing. "And yourself? Before yesterday morning?"

The former Law Enforcement officer shrugged. "A collection of issues, none of which were actually mine - Sarah's illness took up all of my time until she died, and then for a while I didn't have anything except grief. After a few months I considered applying to join the Aurors - Head Auror Weasley made it clear to me when I resigned that when that was over they would take me in again. But then Bellatrix Lestrange died, and the press suddenly remembered who Mum was and started crawling all over our family. That's when everything went wrong."

After a moment's hesitation, Mycroft leaned forwards and placed a hopefully comforting hand on the other man's knee. Lestrade looked down at it with a sharp intake of breath, his eyes widening in surprise. "Mycroft," he breathed. Their eyes met; Mycroft raised an eyebrow, inquiring whether the touch was all right. Lestrade didn't move away.

"It's amazing," he said quietly instead. "After everything that's happened, I still feel comfortable around you. From the moment I met you, actually, there was something that just _worked_." Mycroft tried to breathe steadily, tried not to let the anticipation of the words show in his face. "Sarah and I never clicked like that. We were happy together, but I used to wonder what would be different if I'd chosen you."

Again, Mycroft hesitated. What was he supposed to say in response to that? If Lestrade had said something, all those years ago, had 'chosen him', what would he have done in response? He honestly didn't know.

He took a quick breath in, opening his mouth to say something even though he hadn't figured out quite what yet, and Lestrade leaned forwards and pressed their open lips together.

Instinct kicked in and Mycroft yanked himself away, almost toppling the straight chair over backwards. Lestrade straightened himself with a mortified expression as Mycroft stood, unsure how to react except to flee the situation. He hadn't meant to reject the kiss - if he'd known it was about to happen so suddenly he wouldn't have been able to extract himself even if he'd wanted to. And yet, given the circumstances, he couldn't help but think he'd done the right thing. "Mycroft -"

"I'm sorry," he interrupted, fidgeting restlessly for the moment it took to get the words out. "I have to go."

He strode quickly from the holding cell, closing the door softly behind him, trying as hard as he could to ignore the stricken look on Gregory Lestrade's face.

It was still visible through the glass, though; there was no escaping it as he leaned against the closed door and allowed himself to cover his face with his hands. Through the gaps in his fingers he could see the older man do the same, looking as though he hadn't _meant_ to kiss Mycroft, like it had sort of just _happened, _and now he was afraid of the consequences.

Mycroft could relate to that.

He let his fingers slip down his face until they touched his lips, tingling as the blood rushed back into the places where Lestrade's own lips had knocked it away. The urge to go back into the room and recapture that feeling was stronger than he'd ever felt anything before. But he _couldn't_ - Gregory was his main suspect in an investigation, what would happen to both of them if anyone discovered it? How could he have any kind of input once the truth was discovered if he was romantically involved with the suspect?

Realistically, he knew he should have removed himself from the case the moment he recognised Gregory. He'd already made the mistake, and he liked to think he'd been impartial so far. If he passed up this opportunity to have this with Lestrade, would he ever get another like it, with _anyone?_ Besides, it was just once, to acknowledge what they could have had, and then in the morning they could return to what they _did_ have.

He knew that wasn't true, but he couldn't bring himself to care. For the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes threw caution to the wind and walked back into the cell.

Lestrade sat up as the door banged against the wall, looking panicked until he realised who it was. "Mycroft, I'm sorry," he started to say once more, but Mycroft didn't stop, sidestepping the table and bending over the bed to fold their mouths together once more.

Any protests died quickly, replaced by a broken moan like a starving man being fed and Lestrade's broad hands clutching at his back, pulling him down onto the bed. Mycroft almost fell as the side of the unforgiving mattress hit his knees, knocking their teeth together painfully, but it didn't matter: the other man's smooth tongue had found its way into his open mouth and Mycroft had _never_ been kissed like this, not with genuine passion and fondness mixed in with the undeniable lust.

He'd been kissed before when he was younger, mainly when he was trying to forget about Lestrade's fiancée, and there had been a sort of passion in those kisses, a desperation and appreciation, but it quite resoundingly wasn't the same. Those men had kissed him because they'd liked the way he looked and moved and spoke, not because they'd talked to him about anything in particular and actually liked him as a person. Lestrade kissed him and held him at the same time, like he wanted _everything_, the frenzied lust and the cozy handholding and the hours Mycroft could imagine spending at coffee shops and on the couch he'd barely sat on since he'd spent an entire afternoon dragging it into his apartment, just talking about all the things they'd missed a throwaway comment about in ten years.

The kiss ended quite suddenly and Mycroft found himself looking into the other man's slightly puzzled frown. He raised an eyebrow, shifting his knees so that he could be within kissing distance without crushing anything vital on either of their bodies. "What made you come back?" Gregory asked him seriously.

Mycroft thought about it: it hadn't so much been a reasoned decision as it had an impulse he hadn't been able to control. "Because it's been ten years and I've never felt for anyone the way I felt for you," he admitted finally. "Having had the chance to have this and turning it down is worse than any of the reasons why coming back in here was a bad idea."

The former Gryffindor smiled helplessly. "I'm glad," he said, his calloused fingers stroking the line of Mycroft's jaw. His thumb swiped easily across Mycroft's bottom lip, quickly replaced by his own lips, warm and urgent. "Maybe this isn't the best timing, but I'd rather have _something_ with you now than not at all," he added when he pulled away. Mycroft lunged back into a kiss, because no matter how delightful the words were, they weren't better than the kissing; but once again, Lestrade separated them to gasp out more words. "Not that I was thinking rationally when I kissed you," he qualified. "I wasn't thinking anything except how beautiful you were, and how incredible it is that you can make me laugh after everything that's happened."

Mycroft placed his finger over the other man's lips, depressing them so that the soft flesh pillowed around his skin. "It doesn't matter why you did it," he told him quietly. "You did, and I did, and here we are, and it's good."

Lestrade grinned. "Yes, it is," he agreed.

Finally, he seemed to have said everything that he needed to; with the tiniest of moans, the ex-Vigilant reached for him again, pressing their lips together painfully hard.

If he noticed that Mycroft kissed like he'd never really done it before, he didn't seem to mind; Mycroft gratefully allowed the other man control of the kiss, letting himself be manoeuvred onto his back on the mattress until Lestrade knelt over him, their chests pressing together through so many layers of fabric. He'd never expected to feel so comfortable with someone in such physical control of him, but it had always surprised him how easily he trusted Lestrade.

His own hands stroked firmly up and down the rough fabric of the Ministry-issued grey robes across Lestrade's back, feeling how the warmth of his skin bled through the cloth and somehow made the motion incredibly intimate. Mycroft bunched the robes under his fingers, not realising he was lifting his hips until Lestrade lowered his own and their groins connected, sending shockwaves through his body. He broke the kiss to gasp into the other man's hair, accidentally getting a lungful of shampoo and sweat.

Lestrade let out a low noise, gently pushing their hips together once more. Mycroft had expected himself to be miserably hard from their kiss, every flicker of the ex-Vigilant's tongue against the roof of his mouth inexorably coiling him tighter, but he hadn't expected the other man to feel the same.

He'd never understood why people kissed, never thought it could actually arouse him as anything other than a prelude to sex. Clearly kissing Lestrade was a whole new variety of the activity.

He lifted his hips again to meet each languid press of Gregory's, feeling the older man's fingers clutch at his shoulders in response. With each movement, the clasps on Mycroft's robes caught in the rough fabric of Lestrade's, making his friend grunt in irritation until he sat up, grinding their groins together and reaching for the offending clasps. "May I?" he asked politely, grinning like he knew exactly how small a chance there was that Mycroft would say no.

Mycroft sat up too, pressing their lips together once more and moving the other man's broad hands to the clasps himself. "Please," he whispered, bending his knees to get a purchase on the bed in order to continue the slow gyration of their hips. Lestrade huffed out a breath against his cheek as though he'd waited years to hear him say that. Which, if he really did feel anything like Mycroft did, he probably had.

Lestrade worked his way through the clasps quickly, pushing the neatly-tailored robes off his shoulders and yanking his vest over his head until Mycroft's torso was bare. He felt the hairs on his arms react to the slight chill of the air and the weight of the other man's gaze as Gregory sat back and stroked a calloused finger down his bare chest.

"Godric," the wizard breathed, dipping his head to press a sucking, tender kiss to the dip of Mycroft's clavicle. "I've thought about this so often it's hard to believe it's not all in my head. Even when I was with Sarah I still thought about you. I couldn't help it."

Mycroft almost snorted in disbelief. There was still a part of him that was convinced that the whole experience had been a dream, and the awestruck look on Gregory's face was doing little to counteract that. "You're the only person I've ever thought about," he confessed, not meeting the other man's eyes in case the admission was unwelcome. "I'd almost resigned myself to the fact that I couldn't feel what other people seemed to when I met you."

Lestrade kissed him again, pressing their chests tightly together until Mycroft wormed his hands between them to unfasten Gregory's robes in return, revealing a thicket of greying hair resting above a gentle swell of pectoral muscle and dark nipples that he couldn't quite stop himself from running his fingers over. The ex-Vigilant shuddered bodily, his cock twitching so violently that Mycroft felt it through both their trousers. "Merlin's pants," he breathed, grinding himself down again. A helpless noise bubbled out of Mycroft's throat.

"We should have done this years ago," Lestrade murmured, shifting his bottom higher on Mycroft's thighs so that he could reach for the fastenings on his trousers.

He still wasn't sure he agreed, so he kissed him again to avoid answering, unhooking the other man's trousers in turn. Whether or not it would have worked years ago, he was certainly glad they were doing it now.

Removing their trousers necessitated a reluctant move from their current position: Gregory made a noise of frustration and rolled off him, almost falling off the bed in the process. Mycroft chuckled, taking advantage of the move to yank his own trousers off impatiently. He kicked them away, some part of his brain noticing distantly that he had never treated his clothes with so little care in his life.

They righted themselves sharply, Gregory laying himself down on his side so that they faced each other and smiling easily. Mycroft's breath caught at the sight of his old crush laid bare; he reached out a hand and trailed his fingers down the sensual curve of his hip, the little vulnerable spaces where his hipbones gave way to the dip of his pelvis, the skin soft and thin and warm. Gregory took a sharp breath in, his eyes darkening, stomach muscles pulling away from Mycroft's fingers. He pulled the other man into another deep kiss, drawing his body closer until the warmth of soft skin enveloped his chest and thighs, and their erections nudged each other, making Mycroft jump at the unexpected sensation.

"Gregory," he murmured, diverting his mouth to kiss desperately at the square jawline, sharp with the stubble he hadn't been allowed to shave for the past few days. His friend moaned, startlingly loud in the stone room as it bounced around the walls.

The two of them froze for a moment, looking at each other in surprise at the sound. Mycroft remembered once more exactly where they were and why they were there: his skin broke out in goosebumps at the sudden reality of the situation, like someone had thrown a bucket of water over them.

Gregory's expression when he looked back at him was guarded, wary, as though he were expecting Mycroft to get up and walk away.

Mycroft swallowed tentatively. Then he leaned back in and pressed their lips and bodies and arousals firmly together once more.

He'd made his bed, after all, and now he very much wanted to lie in it. Gregory's body sagged in relief, relaxing into Mycroft's arms until he lay half on top of him and whimpering at the resulting friction in their groins. Mycroft pulled at his shoulders, coaxing him over until Lestrade was straddling him again, pushing their hips together with gradually increasing urgency.

He followed again when Lestrade sat upright, sliding himself into the new groove of Mycroft's hipbones, keeping their mouths sealed together as best he could. Gregory had the height advantage like this; it was oddly pleasant having to crane his neck in order to keep the contact between them, seeing the half-lidded expression directed at him from above.

The new angle put their groins at different levels, however, so that every indolent wiggle of Lestrade's hips to push his erection against Mycroft's stomach rubbed heavily and inexorably up the length of his own penis. Mycroft let his throat stretch out the noise that bubbled up in his stomach at the sensation, glad that he was sitting down as his knees trembled with each long thrust.

Gregory moved his large hands to cup Mycroft's jaw tenderly, his knees steadying them both so that Mycroft's hands were free to explore the rich curve of the other man's shoulder and drop one hand to wrap around his prick, shorter and thicker than Mycroft's own, built much like the man himself. Lestrade grunted approval and dropped his face into the hollow between Mycroft's shoulder and his neck, his stubble scratching at the hypersensitive flesh, his hips pushing his cock steadily into the ring of Mycroft's fingers.

The sensation built by their movements swelled and flowed around Mycroft like it was external to himself, eddying in the space around him like a heat haze; he buried his face in the unexpected softness of Gregory's greying hair and gasped it out. The hand that was not engaged in drawing out lush moans from the former Gryffindor slid and stroked down the film of sweat that gathered on the swell of Lestrade's shoulderblades. For a moment he thought he might suffocate from the closeness and the _intimacy_, the warm companionship and the feeling of not being alone that Mycroft had spent most of his life teaching himself not to need.

Lestrade's breath and lips and tongue on his collarbone, his urgent sounds in his ears, didn't feel like they were ruining that teaching somehow. Tomorrow he would wake up knowing that the older man's firm hands had once grasped at his buttocks like they needed them to stay anchored to reality - not that this felt like reality. It seemed more like those moments between sleep and waking where sensations from the real world underlay the most brilliant of fantasy scenarios, like any minute Mycroft would wake to find his hips pushing at his own hands and an escaped Knarl from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures burrowing into his neck.

Mycroft let the briefest of moans escape, his own hips trembling with the urge to push up into the intermittent weight of Gregory. He didn't want to move in case he threw the other man out of the rhythm he had worked himself into, thrusting his hips in counterpoint to the movements of Mycroft's hand, pulling them closer to each other until Mycroft felt like if he could only open his chest the ex-Vigilant would climb inside.

Gregory hummed out an urgent noise and lifted his head to press the two of them cheek to cheek, his stubble prickling pleasantly against the ridge of Mycroft's cheekbone. Mycroft turned his head to press his lips there, but the other man did the same and their lips connected instead, immediately parting to allow their tongues to tangle and flick against each other, each little movement making the rest of his skin more sensitive until he could feel every scratch of stubble on his chin and every heartbeat travel through the places where their skin was pressed together. Lestrade groaned into the kiss; his breath blew across Mycroft's cheek at such a rate he got the impression that he would rather be panting but needed the kiss.

He broke it quite suddenly, gasping for air and clutching at Mycroft's shoulders. "Please," he panted, using the moment to catch his breath after the word to lick the sweat from Mycroft's neck. "I need…"

Mycroft waited for the space of a heartbeat, but Lestrade didn't seem able to articulate what he needed. Mycroft kissed him again and guessed, bringing his free hand around to stroke and tweak at his friend's nipples, feeling gooseflesh break out around his fingers and the stocky body begin to shudder helplessly in his arms, a low moan rumbling from Gregory's chest straight into Mycroft's through their joined mouths. The former Vigilant clutched desperately at his back and pulled them so tightly together that Mycroft could feel every pulse of the other man's cock, every involuntary twitch as his friend - his lover? - spasmed and groaned his climax between them and every tiniest movement translated directly to his own trapped erection until he felt like he might break from the effort of holding still.

Finally, the older man's shudders and twitches faded, leaving him panting and sticky and leaning into Mycroft so heavily that he had to prop both hands on the bed behind them so they didn't fall backwards. "Godric," he panted, attempting to peel them apart and then giving up.

Mycroft whimpered agreement, his hips twitching as Lestrade's movements took pressure away from where he desperately wanted it.

Gregory slid himself back, forcing Mycroft's legs back flat on the mattress, and slid a too-gentle finger up the length of Mycroft's prick, biting his already-reddened bottom lip. "You're gorgeous," he commented idly, looking back up to meet his eyes.

Unsure how to respond - he hadn't given proper thought to howattractive his body might be in ten years - Mycroft kissed him again to break the eye contact. Lestrade chuckled as he saw through the gesture. A firm hand asserted itself into the centre of his chest and pushed him down so that he lay flat on his back, Gregory still straddling his thighs with one hand trailing far too teasingly up and down his erection.

He made an embarrassingly pitiful sound, his stomach muscles trying to curl his entire body around the point of contact. "Gregory," he whimpered, earning a smile from the other man. "Please, I -"

In one fluid, surprisingly graceful move, Lestrade slid his body down Mycroft's legs and his mouth down his cock, flattening his tongue firmly against the underside and bringing one hand up to fix around the base.

Mycroft came immediately, just enough self-awareness left through the inferno to be mortified at the lack of warning he'd been able to provide. He thought he might be shouting, but he couldn't hear anything over the roaring in his ears as his entire consciousness scrunched itself into a molten ball and imploded, turning him almost inside-out.

"Sorry," he murmured once it had faded into a shivery haze of pleasure and exhaustion, propping himself wearily onto his elbows in order to direct his apologetic expression at the other man.

Gregory chuckled again. "It's quite alright," he assured him, clearing his throat and crawling back up Mycroft's body in order to collapse spread-eagled on top of him. Mycroft smiled at the ceiling, allowing his hands to draw lazy figure-eights in the sheen of sweat on the older wizard's back, and sighed contentedly. He'd never been happier to be anywhere in his life.

After a while, Gregory's release began to cool and harden against their skin, making them itchy and slightly cold; Mycroft nudged the ex-Vigilant over slightly in order to reach in the vague direction he had thrown his trousers. "_Accio wand_," he commanded, feeling the satisfying _thunk_ as it landed firmly in his hands. _"Scourgify._"

He shuddered as the spell swept over them, cleaning sweat and semen alike and warming them pleasantly. "I love magic," Gregory commented cheerfully. He kissed the base of Mycroft's chin - apparently the highest place he could reach from where he lay - and settled in more comfortably.

They lay like that until Mycroft felt himself beginning to nod off, lulled into drowsiness by the steady rhythm of Lestrade's breathing. The feeling of drifting into sleep shocked him back into wakefulness: he couldn't fall asleep here. He wasn't supposed to be in the cell at all, let alone asleep naked tangled together with the man he was supposed to be investigating.

He sighed. "I can't stay here," he said aloud, making the reluctance to leave as clear as he could in the words.

Gregory stirred slowly, his jaw cracking in a yawn. "I know," he agreed, rolling off him and tucking himself into his side, really not making it any easier for Mycroft to get up. "Just… don't go yet," he said quietly. "Please. Stay until I fall asleep."

"Of course," Mycroft sighed in relief, hoping he could stay awake for that long himself but happy to take the excuse not to leave. "Of course, Gregory."

* * *

><p>III<p>

* * *

><p>The Healer's report didn't' arrive until mid-morning on the third day, when Teddy Lupin had almost driven Mycroft insane pacing in and out of his office.<p>

They went to see Lestrade almost as soon as the Auror reached the Ministry, but the widower had been as taciturn as the previous afternoon, barely meeting Mycroft's eyes. He couldn't tell if the ignorance was out of caution or regret; he knew he couldn't, but he found himself wishing anyway that they could have shared just one glance that would assure him the last night wasn't just a stress hallucination or an incredible mistake.

The ruffled and panicky owl that arrived hours later, summoning them urgently to St Mungo's, was a welcome distraction from his own mind.

"Sorry for the delay," Healer Morton said as she showed them into the mortuary. "There was a suspected case of spattergroit and we had to identify it before the hospital panicked and went into quarantine. It wasn't spattergroit, of course. There's a painting on the fourth floor I keep telling people needs to be taken down that diagnoses everyone who walks past with it. It's not the first time we've locked down because of it." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her. "Right, sorry," she refocused effortlessly. "Well, once we actually got onto the reconstruction, we noticed it straight away. There weren't enough spells cast by the wand you gave us to cause all of the damage. That wand can only have put a few gashes in each of the men, but it caused all of Emily Lestrade's injuries - and it was the wand that Stunned her."

Lupin crossed his arms critically. "So someone else killed the men, and the suspect only stunned Emily Lestrade, she died when she fell, and then he ruined her face and added a few injuries to each other victim to make it look like he'd killed all of them," he summarised. He turned his eyes to Mycroft. "There can't be many reasons someone would do that," he said heavily.

At least one step ahead, Mycroft shook his head. His stomach had sank so low he was half-convinced he would trip over it if he tried to move_. And then Bellatrix Lestrange died, and that's when everything went wrong. _"I'd say there can only be one," he corrected. Why hadn't he seen this earlier? "Healer Morton, were you given a sample of the suspect's DNA when you were given his wand?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level and failing.

"Yes," she told him. "It's standard practice."

Mycroft nodded. "Is there a spell you can use to test whether or not he and Emily Lestrade are related?" he asked. Teddy looked at him in surprise.

"Easily," she agreed. He watched her cross to a glass cupboard, take out the vial containing the swab they'd taken from Lestrade, and take it over to Emily's body. Mycroft wasn't childish enough to cross his fingers or hold his breath, but he hoped and prayed anyway as she cast a spell over the both of them. A faint light surrounded the vial, beginning white and slowly darkening to a vague shade of green.

"They're related," she concluded, looking back at him. "Only distantly. Second cousins, at a guess. It's not surprising, most of the Wizarding World is distantly related."

Lupin started; Mycroft did sigh this time, his fears confirmed. "It's a bit surprising," he corrected her dully. "But incredibly illuminating." He looked at his temporary partner, who was now frowning at him in consternation. "I know what happened," he said. "He was right, it's worse than we were thinking."

Teddy Lupin didn't ask until they were back at the Ministry. "What do you know?" he asked as soon as they stepped out of the Apparition point.

"You were right," Mycroft told him. "There aren't many reasons someone would try to make it look as though they had killed four people before their own sister. The DNA test was just to confirm my suspicions as to why."

From the look on the Auror's face - and the stabs of blue that crept through his forcibly brown hair - he knew he'd guessed right, and Lupin had known exactly what the reason was. "Go and find Janet," he ordered him. "I almost guarantee you we'll get a confession when we tell him what we know, and I'll need it on record. Can you send someone to fetch Head Auror Weasley, and Scorpius Malfoy too?"

He waited until Lupin and Janet arrived before he entered the holding cell, despite the part of him that wanted to do this alone and more compassionately, man to man, whether they were acknowledging last night's intimacy or would never get away with 'solving' this case unless an Auror was there and he got the confession on record. Once it was done, however, he would make sure as few people saw it as he could get away with.

Lestrade swallowed nervously when he entered the room, but it was obvious that Mycroft's face gave him away, that bitter mix of pity and horror and the tiniest bit of triumph at discovering the truth. "I had a DNA test run," he said softly. "Emily's not your sister. In fact, I'd say she's more Lestrange than Lestrade." The ex-Vigilant placed his head weakly in his hands as though admitting defeat. Mycroft sat down softly on the bed beside him, forgoing the table and chairs. "Tell me how she found out," he asked quietly.

So the older man opened his mouth, with a glance at the piece of apparently-ordinary wall on the other side of which Janet was both recording and transcribing what he would say, and started speaking.

"There was a huge media investigation when Bellatrix Lestrange died," he began, closing his eyes like it was easier to pretend he was speaking to himself. "Most of them stayed away from us, but Emily… a reporter contacted her a few weeks afterwards saying he'd uncovered a secret about the family but wanted to tell her in confidence. Emily was nervous so I came along with her."

He paused for a long moment, and when he began again his voice was quick and factual. "The reporter had done some digging in sealed St Mungo's records and found the record of my mother's second pregnancy. It said that her second child was stillborn, dead before it ever left the womb. And then he'd found the record of Ceres Lestrange's death, my cousin. She'd dropped off the face of the earth the first time her parents were arrested, but she died in childbirth a week before my mother gave birth. The reporter managed to track down the attending Healer in his retirement, and he confirmed it - my mother had taken Ceres Lestrange's child, the granddaughter of Bellatrix and Rudolphus Lestrange, and passed it off as her own." He shrugged in a poor approximation of nonchalance. "When Emily confronted my mother about it she confessed that it was the truth. We kept telling her it didn't matter, that for all intents and purposes we were her family, but she became obsessed with the fact that she shared genetic material with Bellatrix Lestrange, and then…"

Lestrade sighed heavily. "Two months ago she somehow got the idea that she had inherited her grandmother's madness." Mycroft shifted where he sat, trying to comfort the other man with his presence without being too familiar in front of the others. He could sense Lupin's discomfort without even looking at him, and he dreaded to think what Weasley, who had seen Bellatrix Lestrange in full swing, was feeling.

"It terrified her, but she was certain: it was like a tumor growing in her, like some kind of parasite, the urge to torture and murder people like Bellatrix did. She only told me about it, begged me to lock her in her room, even to kill her so that other people would be safe. I kept telling her that her fear and her disgust was what kept her apart from her grandmother, was what made her safe, but she never believed me. It completely consumed her, the idea that she was a psychotic, sadistic murderer waiting to happen, that one day she wouldn't be able to control herself."

Mycroft put out his hand to grip Gregory's knee in comfort as tears welled in his eyes; the widower bit his lip and stared up at the enchanted window, visibly trying to hold himself together. "I've known my sister all her life, Auror Weasley," he entreated. "I thought I knew her then. I was absolutely certain that she could never hurt anyone - just as certain as she was that she would. And I knew that the only way to prove to her that I was right was to give her the opportunity to hurt someone, because I knew she'd never take it."

Gregory's voice cracked at the end of his sentence, and suddenly he seemed to fall apart, spilling the tears that had been growing in his deep eyes and curling in on himself. Mycroft ignored everyone else in the room and gathered Gregory Lestrade into his arms, trying to hold him together. With a pointed glance at Lupin, he adjusted himself so that Janet would still catch the words pouring out of his mouth as though he was powerless to stop them.

"I took her to that warehouse knowing there would only be five or so people inside, people she didn't know, the exact people she was worried about harming. I taught her the spells I'd been shown in Vigilance training, talked her through exactly how to torture someone without getting caught, promised her that I would cover up for her when she did it. I knew with absolute certainty that she would throw her wand away and despise me for even suggesting it, and that it would show her just how incapable she was of hurting anyone.

"She knew why I was doing it. Maybe she knew how I would react if she actually lifted her wand_._" Gregory managed a sarcastic, slightly bitter smile. "I've said it before - you never stop being a Vigilant. I'd been doing it for ten years, there are responses I can't control anymore.

"The first thing she did was Disarm me. Then she Immobilised me so I couldn't find my wand, but I think she always meant for me to get free. By the time I'd shaken off the body bind and found my wand those four Muggles were dead. I didn't have a choice, I had to stop her. I Stunned her, but she hit her head on a table when she collapsed and by the time I got to her - I still couldn't use my legs properly after the bind - it was too late."

He paused for another long moment, biting his lip and rather violently wiping tears away from his chin. "If I'm honest, I was relieved," he said finally, cringing as though saying it aloud was condemning. "I didn't _want_ to kill her, but I don't think I could bear having her put in Azkaban, and after what I'd just seen I couldn't not turn her in. But I didn't want my mother to find out what the truth had turned her daughter into. I knew she'd blame herself."

Lestrade shrugged, resting his head against Mycroft's chest and squeezing his hand gratefully. "I Apparated out to the Thames and threw Emily's wand away, then used my own to make it look as though I'd killed them all. I knew even as I was doing it that it wouldn't fool the Ministry for long, but I had to try and I couldn't think of anything else on the spot. I'm sorry I lied and held up your investigation, but I did it to protect my sister. I didn't kill those Muggles. But their deaths were my fault. Maybe it was stupid to take Emily there and give her that chance, but I was certain that it was the only way to save her. I still don't know what she would have become if I hadn't, and I stand by my decision as the best I could have made, despite what happened because of it."

There was silence for a while. Mycroft stayed where he was with a firm look towards the enchanted window, as though daring anyone to comment on his decision to comfort someone who was so obviously in pain. Eventually Head Auror Weasley entered the room.

"I'm so sorry, Greg," he said quietly. He was pale underneath his freckles, his red hair standing up in all sorts of directions.

Lestrade didn't reply, instead patting Mycroft's hand gently and disentangling himself from the makeshift embrace. "Thank you, Mycroft," he said, smiling at him.

Mycroft shook his head dismissively. "Don't thank me yet," he replied with a soft smile in return. "I think I can help you, but I need the Minister's approval. Which means more people are going to hear this story."

Gregory sat up slowly. "Help me how?" he asked.

* * *

><p>Kingsley Shacklebolt took a long pause before he lowered the transcript and looked up at Mycroft with a heavy sigh. "The poor man," he sympathised. "To have gone through all of that and still be willing to face Azkaban."<p>

"Sir," Mycroft said calmly. "I believe this case can be resolved without the need for anyone to go to Azkaban. I need your approval to arrange a press release because the information I want to put out is false, but with the right Obliviation procedure I think it's the only thing we can conscionably do."

Shacklebolt steepled his fingers in front of his lips. "I'm listening," he said.

"I know you don't want the Lestranges back in the press," Mycroft reminded his boss softly. By the end of the last media storm around Bellatrix's death, the name had become synonymous with the Ministry's failure to act during the War, and no-one wanted that brought up again. Shacklebolt had spent almost thirty years attempting to rebuild the trust that his predecessors had lost in that period. "Particularly not like this. Descendants of Death Eaters everywhere would panic. I suggest we blame it on Rundle."

Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but Mycroft saw Weasley lean himself against the wall with an thoughtful expression. "Peter Rundle? The anti-Muggle activist? Wasn't he killed a week ago? The _Prophet _know that."

Weasley cleared his throat. "This actually more or less fits his M.O.," he piped up. "He left latent spells in places where Muggles would trigger them accidentally when he wasn't around to get the blame. We know he usually worked alone, but if this time he didn't and the spell had someone else's magical signature woven into it, it would have still been there after he died. It's completely plausible, _and _it can only help us in the fight against the last of _Magic is Might_."

Mycroft nodded. "The Lestrades were in the area, and because of Gregory's Vigilant training he would have been able to sense the curse and they would have tried to help but been too late, and Emily was killed in the effort."

"Have you run this past Lestrade?" Shacklebolt asked.

"You heard him," Mycroft said, nodding towards the transcript. "His main concern - the reason he didn't tell us the truth straightaway - was what his mother would think of her. I told him my vague idea and he agreed. We'll order a routine Obliviation for the officers involved in the case, and offer one to Lestrade as well."

The Minister hesitated, looking around the room for further objections. When none were forthcoming, he nodded shortly. "Very well," he agreed. "Approved. Draft a press statement and release Mister Lestrade."

Mycroft dipped his head diplomatically. "Thank you, Minister," he said briskly.

He left Weasley and Lupin to draft a press release for his approval and went straight back down to Gregory.

"The Minister has approved the decision," he told him. "The press will run the story that what happened at the warehouse was a latent curse placed by a dead anti-Muggle activist. Everyone who had access to the case except for myself, Lupin, Weasley and the Minister will be Obliviated and their memories replaced with this story. For all intents and purposes, it will become the truth." He hesitated, watching the frown lines move across Lestrade's forehead. "Gregory," he said seriously, "are you sure you're okay with that?"

The older man smiled. "I'm sure," he said, nodding firmly. "Emily was a perfect citizen before Bellatrix Lestrange got into her mind. She deserves to have people remember her that way. And I don't want what happened to make other people think the same way - I'm sure we're not the only family trying to forget that we're related to Death Eaters."

Mycroft nodded. "That was my thought as well," he admitted. "If… if you want, we can Obliviate you as well. You'll forget what happened and remember your sister the way she ought to be remembered."

"No," Lestrade declined without pause. "Someone needs to remember exactly what happened, exactly what she became. Otherwise what was the point?" Mycroft wasn't sure he agreed, but he allowed the point anyway: he hadn't wanted to Obliviate his friend for more selfish reasons. The former Vigilant smiled softly. "And anyway, I wouldn't do that to _you_."

He frowned, trying for the briefest of moments to remember whether Vigilants were trained in Legilimency before he realised the relief must have shown on his face. Apparently his mask was slipping. "How do you mean?"

Lestrade shrugged, hugging his arms to him and rubbing them as if he was cold. "You'd see me, and you'd know that I was living a lie, and you wouldn't be able to do anything about it. You'd know the truth, and I wouldn't, and every time we saw each other it would hurt." He hesitated as though he had just realised something. "We will see each other, Mycroft, won't we?" he said urgently, like it was the most important thing in the world.

For a moment, Mycroft couldn't answer for the surprise. Even after everything that had happened, he'd still assumed it would end as soon as the older man walked through the Ministry's front doors - earlier, even, going by the way Lestrade had so pointedly ignored him that morning.

Then he beamed. "Of course we will," he assured him. "Now come on, let's get you out of here."

As Lestrade hadn't technically been a prisoner, simply held for questioning, the process of releasing him took less than twenty minutes and three different sets of paperwork before they stepped out of the phonebox that hid the Visitor's Entrance from Muggle view. Mycroft couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief: the entire way up from the detention level to the Atrium, he'd expected someone to stop them and say that there had been a mistake, that they'd uncovered evidence that Mycroft's personal relationships had compromised the investigation, or someone from the _Prophet_ to stop and call Lestrade a murderer. It had been agreed that they would wait until the ex-Vigilant was released and had time to make it home before they released the public story - though the internal Obliviation had begun as soon as the Minister had approved it - so that he wasn't accosted by sympathetic well-wishers as he left the Ministry, but Mycroft worried that someone the Obliviators hadn't got to yet would spot them on their way out.

No-one had, and so Gregory smiled gratefully at him, squinting against the sunlight. "Thank you for everything, Mycroft," he said with a sigh.

Mycroft smiled as comfortingly as he could. "I'm just glad I could help." He held out a hand stiffly for Lestrade to shake with a fond smile. "Head Auror Weasley would like you to know that when you feel ready to return to work, he is still more than happy to consider your CV."

"I might just give it to him," the older man said happily, leaving his hand in Mycroft's for a little longer than necessary before letting go, an anticipatory smile on his face.

Unsure quite what he was waiting for, Mycroft nodded. "Good," he said. "Then I'm sure I'll see you around."

Gregory's shoulders seemed to slump - clearly this hadn't been what he was holding out for. "I'm sure you will," he said simply. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

"Goodbye," Mycroft replied reluctantly. Again, the older man hesitated, but when Mycroft said nothing he dropped his hand and started to leave. Mycroft felt his chest clench strangely, like a muscle cramp in his heart.

"Gregory," he called back before he could stop himself. The future Auror turned back, a tiny smile on his face as though he hadn't really expected Mycroft to let him walk away. "If you ever… don't want to go through this alone, if you want company, someone to talk to - I'm only ever an owl away."

The smile widened until it lit Lestrade's eyes. "I'll take you up on that," he nodded. "Thank you, Mycroft. And - it's Greg, even my mother never calls me Gregory."

The two of them hesitated for a further moment. Then, once again, Lestrade straightened his shoulders and turned back to the door; once again, Mycroft forced himself to say what was on his mind before he lost the chance entirely. "You know how you said we'd missed each other, that first night," he blurted out, smiling awkwardly as Lestrade turned to face him, definitely grinning this time. "Maybe we didn't," he continued. "Maybe we've got another chance."

Greg seemed to consider him for a moment, an amused smile playing across his face. "Would you have dinner with me, then?" he asked finally.

Mycroft breathed out in relief, the smile instantaneous, stretching muscles that hadn't been used in at least ten years. "I'll pick you up tomorrow evening?" he suggested.

"It's a date," Gregory agreed with his most disarming grin. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked forward to it. "I daresay you will," he replied. "Greg."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I will now get back to _What You Will_ with great relish...


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